guilt

All posts tagged guilt

Published November 26, 2017 by Chloe Madison

I can’t trust God. Maybe that’s because so many bad things have happened. Maybe it’s because my earthly father wasn’t trustworthy and I subconsciously equate that with my Heavenly Father. Maybe it’s both.

How can you have hope in something you can’t trust? If you want to criticize me for that or think that I’m an immature Christian…then, that’s your choice.

I just can’t bring myself to fully trust God. How can I reconcile all the bad that he lets happen? Yes, you say “oh it’s because we live in a fallen world” and that’s true. But God IS sovereign. I know that. So he allows evil to reign.

But as I sit and think…I don’t really believe God fully loves me. Does he love me a little? Sure. Does he love all of me? No. And I’m not just referring to the sinful parts of me. I don’t see how God can love me.

How can anyone ever love me after they find out I was locked up in a looney bin?

And speaking of the looney bin…the bills have begun. How can an ER visit cost $16,570.46??? I’m trying so hard not to freak out. But the shaking and crying have begun. I got another bill from the ambulance which was less than I expected. They only want $358.63. Then I got an additional bill from the ER doctor for an another $695. And do you know what the best part is?? I haven’t even received the bill for the 5 days and nights that I was locked up!!! I’m terrified to find out how much that will cost me. All of these are “out of network” providers. They can charge whatever they want for services I fought tooth and nail against…and I’m the one who gets the joy of this immense financial burden.

How am I supposed to survive? How am I supposed to pay this? How is this supposed to help someone who doesn’t want to live? Is this really supposed to make me want to live now? Seriously? Yeah…let’s throw a huge financial burden and strain on you…don’t think you’re dealing with enough…there…now you’re really drowning in debt…don’t dare come up for air…feel better now? Smh.

Sorry…I’m trying to use twisted humor and sarcasm to deal with this. I’m trying so hard to not freak out, to stop crying. How can ONE PERSON handle bills like these?

This was the worst experience of my life. I’ve been trying to brace myself for the financial part that I knew was coming. I guess I’ve done a horrible job of preparing myself. I don’t know what to do.

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Published November 24, 2017 by Chloe Madison

I’m so thankful for this. ⬆️ It makes me feel better to think that I’m not “ill.” But it does mention the breaking down of relationships and crushing connections. 😓 I can attest to that. I also think that depression has added more to my isolation and withdrawing from people. The trust part- that’s from PTSD though. I’m trying to understand PTSD more. So much more is known about it now than when I had it before. I never knew my urge to cut was from a build up of adrenaline from a fight or flight response that had been triggered. I’m still kind of in awe of that. I had always felt so ashamed and immature that I had that urge. I didn’t know it was “scientifically based,” as the psychiatrist put it. I went back to every time I was leaning in that direction and tried to remember what path my thoughts went down so I could identify how the fight or flight response had been triggered. I did some research and found out that the stress hormone, cortisol, also triggers a fight or flight response. In one book, it says that this could lead to a suicide attempt as you’re protecting yourself from ever being harmed again. For me, I’m not quite sure why I think of suicide so often. I’ve thought of spiritual warfare combined with plain old depression and stress. I do only think of taking action when I’m beyond stressed and feel like I’m about to burst. (That feeling is what the psychiatrist said was adrenaline.)

This is so complex and complicated and I know I don’t understand all of it. To make matters worse, what I’ll come to an understanding of today, I’ll forget by tomorrow. No joke. 😒

Anyway, I’m trying so hard to be more understanding of myself. That might sound silly, but I’m incredibly hard on myself- very critical of myself. I think that internal dialogue is from my mom. But regardless, I’m trying to give myself some slack when it comes to what I’m thinking and feeling and the resulting behaviors. First and foremost, I’m on a mission to stop hurting other people…even if it’s just hurting them by lying. It’s not right and never will be. Second, I’m trying to get better for myself. So I’m trying to understand what I’ve been diagnosed with and how it’s affecting everything. When I googled how PTSD affects friendships and relationships, I was shocked. I couldn’t believe how much damage it does…and it made me realize that a lot of what I’ve done recently is from PTSD. It doesn’t make it right, but at least I can identify why I did those things. If I can identify my motivation, I can then learn to stop. I just don’t want to ever hurt anyone. Ever. That’s not who I am.

Half of me tells myself I’m NOTHING like my father. Half of me berates myself with every bad thing I’ve ever done, saying I’m cut from the same cloth. I’m trying so hard to believe and to know in my heart that I’m a child of God. I feel like there’s a wall there though. I can’t break past it. I just can’t believe that God truly, truly loves me. I just don’t see myself as a child of God. I don’t know why. I don’t know what the problem is. I don’t know how to change that.

I’m trying really hard to believe this too. ⬆️ I don’t believe it yet. I know all too well that what I’m dealing with is too much for normal people. I know that I’ve shared with people, then they’ve chosen to walk out on me. But that’s their prerogative.

I saw this online ⬆️ That is exactly what I think!!! And unfortunately, a few friends already proved to me that this is true. 😓 It makes me all the more grateful for those who have stepped up and helped me and who have done SO MUCH to ensure my survival even against my own wishes. I thank God for them.

Published November 21, 2017 by Chloe Madison

Spent the last few days doing a lot, a lot of thinking. Yes, being self-absorbed still…but I have to figure out what’s going on with me so I can stop being a jerk. I don’t know why I’m lashing out, being so impatient, so demanding, so immature…why I have so much anger boiling over.

I finally googled how PTSD affects friendships and relationships. Oph. There it was. “PTSD can cause problems with trust, closeness, communication, and problem solving.” I read on and on. A lot of stuff pertained to me, a lot of stuff didn’t. Either way, I don’t want to use PTSD as an excuse to be a jerk to anyone. That’s not fair. But it did help me understand why I can’t trust even the most benign people in my life. In my head, logically, I know these people are safe…but emotionally and psychologically, I can’t bring myself to trust them. And now it’s even worse. And my anger…God knows…I feel like I have anger from everything- my past, my present, my parents, my former friends…just everything and everyone. But I’m trying to learn here…I’m trying to become a better person…so I refuse to sit back and blame anyone. What’s done is done…my anger will fade. I just have to be mature about it and make sure I don’t hurt myself or anyone else in the mean time. I feel like God will heal me. I know He can….I just wonder sometimes. I wonder if it’s meant to be or not.

And I always wonder whether I’m meant to be. I surely don’t think so. I’m trying my best to shove those thoughts out of my head though.

I’ve thought a lot about Kyle. I found out his mom had called the police, saying he was in fact about to commit suicide, he was on drugs, and he was schizophrenic. I went back and reread some of his Facebook posts. I can’t make heads or tails out of them.

I thought of the person I knew so many years ago. He was kind and generous and had an affinity for the poor and for animals. My kind of person. His friends and I have decided we will remember him the way we knew him, as a kind, gentle soul.

I feel terrible for his family, for his mom…and it’s given me a renewed view of suicide from the other side. It’s been a long time since someone I know committed suicide. I had one really good friend and my uncle commit suicide. I thought of Agron and of my uncle. And I thought of all the death lately. I feel like I’ve been surrounded by it, drowning in it. The man who committed suicide in my building, Jason who died on the trail, my aunt and my cousin who died earlier this year from cancer. I still see Jason’s face all the time- both alive and dead. And I’ve been watching that empty apartment where my neighbor committed suicide. They kept it empty for quite a while and now it’s newly rented. I would stand outside while walking my dog and think of the guy, dying in there alone, with fentanyl patches all over. I feel for him. I understand. And yet I know I really can’t say I do.

I’m still so mad at God too. This has been a topic of conversation in my therapy sessions. Why would God allow child abuse? Why would he allow little children to be sexually abused? Why would he allow parents and grandparents to cover up abuse and protect the abuser? Why would he allow us…his people…to hurt so deeply? And for so long? Does he really love us? Really?? It’s difficult for me to reconcile a loving, fatherly God with one who allows such things. Why did God think I could handle a death on the trail? Why did he think I could handle staying with the body for half a day? Why did he think I could handle getting locked up? Why did he think that could help more than hurt?? Why did he make friends give up on me and jump ship? Why is he making me hurt so deeply?

I don’t know any of the answers to these questions. In my head…intellectually, I know God loves me. At least, I think I do. But in my heart, emotionally, it’s nearly impossible for me to believe.

I’m not tying to be a jerk and hold things against God… but I’ve got to wrestle with him over the state of things and his love. Because it doesn’t add up.

Wow…I thought I barely had anything to say for this post.

I wanted to write what I’m thankful for. Every day, all throughout the day, I’m trying to find things to be genuinely thankful for. A lot of what I’m finding now has to do with what I couldn’t experience when I was locked up.

So last night I spent a lot of time gazing up at the stars. I was looking at Saturn and Mercury and dreaming of how Mars still beckons me. God, I would love to go there. The night sky was so beautiful. I told God how his creativity never ceases to amaze me and how thankful I was for his incredible universe.

I’ve been enjoying the last little bit of fall leaves here. There are a few orange ones here that put me in awe. I went walking in the woods today and absorbed every sensation- the chilly air nipping at my nose and ears, the crunching of the leaves beneath my feet, the silence of the forest, and the deer scattering as I approached.

And yet my heart returns and hurts for Kyle. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for him. I’m sorry that I didn’t say something more or do something or reach out in some way. I had no idea he was even remotely contemplating suicide. I really should have known. I’ll carry this too.

EMDR 2

Published June 12, 2017 by Chloe Madison

We started out with the image of my uncle, shot,  face down in the bloody grass.

I almost immediately lifted straight up in the air and was floating over my uncle’s house.

I saw the events of the suicide play out from a bird’s eye view: my uncle barricading himself in the back bedroom, the police coming in through the front door, I see him leave out the back door of his room and run around to the front of the house. I see him come up behind the officers, the last of whom are still entering through the front door. I see him raise his empty handgun and point it at the officers. I see them shoot him. He falls and as they approach and pick up his weapon, they realize it’s empty. One of them says, “Ah, fuck.” 

The police take hours to write up their reports. One of my memories is staring at the circular burn marks in the grass that were made by the police cars idling on top of the high lawn.

My aunt is crying and my uncle is getting taken away on a stretcher. 

I go back into his bedroom, where he’d barricaded himself.

I feel like there’s something I need to see, something I need to find- a clue maybe. 

I’m drawn to the bed…it’s dark underneath- twice I see a long shot gun laying under the bed amidst the darkness.

I find sheets of paper between the mattresses – maybe a suicide note? Or some kind of communication from my uncle?

I hold the papers and a green vine grows up out of them toward the sky, like Jack and the Beanstalk. The vine quickly swirls upward toward the sky and soon, red blood trickles down the vine.

The trickle turns into a gushing of blood pouring down, like the elevator scene in The Shining, where blood gushes out. 


I jump out of the way as the blood pours down from the heavens. It pools on the floor. I keep up against the sides of the walls. I don’t know what to do. I slip out of the door to the bedroom, wanting to leave the mess behind. I feel guilty right away and realize I’m turning my back on my uncle. So I face the door and put my hand on white door and on the door handle, saying to myself that I’ll go back in. I just need a minute. 

Then a yellow light forms directly behind me and garners my attention. I’m drawn to the light but I keep wanting to go back to the bloody room. I hear, “Come to the light.” I think they say, “that’s not yours,” taking about the bloody mess in the room. 

I don’t want to leave the room- it’s my depression. I’m not sure I’m ready to leave the room/ the depression behind.

A hand reaches out from the light and takes mine and it makes me smoothly and swiftly move forward. I think I say something about how easy it is when you take my hand. ? 

It pulls me sharply through a membrane or energy field kind of thing- into a bubble filled with white light. 

Inside the bubble is bright but we can see through it. We float up again over the house. I see the dark room – blackness envelops the outside of the room and the red blood is still pooled in the inside. It seems they’re pointing me in the opposite direction of the room to find happiness. It’s not toward the bloody, black room- it’s elsewhere.

I look over to see what/ where happiness is and the place has green foliage with red roses and a blue ocean. I see the red roses vividly- they stand for life. It’s just the rose- no stem, no nothing- just the flower. Suddenly I’m out in the ocean and there are about 5 or 6 of the roses floating in the blue ocean with me. I question whether the ocean is truth like the other blue water was. It’s not. It’s darker, deeper. I see it as being how I describe depression and suicide- like an uncontrollable, wild sea overwhelming and devouring you. 

Like La Mer:


Like my twitter picture:


So I decide the ocean is not where the roses belong. I look toward the shore and see the white sand of the shore and the green foliage with palm trees. I think that’s where I need to move to. I pick up the roses floating in the ocean and gather them together and paddle for the white beach. Paddling goes on forever. I make it to the white beach, sit down, gaze out over the ocean, and set the roses down in the sand. As I’m looking at them, I realize they won’t flourish here. They’re life. And to make them live, they need to reach the green foliage behind me. So I pick the roses up off the sand and take them to the greenery. I see a small gentle waterfall flowing into a small cool pool of water in the middle of the green foliage. I think the roses might belong there so I put some in the greenery and I lay some on the water to float. I stand in the water and analyze the roses in the greenery and the roses floating to see which is better. The water is better. So I take the few roses from the greenery and put them in the water with me. 

I want to lay back in the cool water and float, but I don’t want to lose touch with the roses. So I take a rose in each hand and lay back and float. With the red color in my palms, it reminds me of Jesus on the cross. 

When you float and water is in your ears, you can’t hear most of what’s happening around you. So I think it’s not safe to float because I can’t hear if anyone or anything approaches. So I sit up to see if anyone is there. I spin around and do a 360 and see no one. But I feel like someone is there so I say, “who’s there?” At this point, I think my dad begins to come forward- a faded figure with a belly. I’m not sure though. As he emerges, it becomes clear that it’s definitely him. I see his jeans and his red and white plaid shirt.


 I recognize his body, but his face is more blurry. 

I think he’s there to finish our conversation. I go to get out of the pool to hug him/ greet him. But I stop. I picture wearing wet clothes and think because of him and his past, that might not be appropriate or safe. So I remain in the water. He sits on the edge of the pool with his feet in the water. I want to talk so I say, “Is there anything you want to say?” He says, “I love you” and then says something about if there was ever any doubt or there shouldn’t be a doubt. I think he says something else but I can’t remember. 

<I think something significant happens here, but I just can’t remember what… >

I apologize, but I bluntly tell him that I just can’t trust him. I see a picture of the clown painting and a bird briefly enters the picture. I think the clown painting (representing grooming or deceitful, manipulative actions) might represent why I have doubts. 

I just don’t believe him.
I ask, “Can God say that to me so I can believe you?” But I feel bad right away and drop my head, thinking of how you shouldn’t ask God to prove things to you. 

Jesus comes almost immediately, full on in all His glory. No shadowy figure- but a bright white and yellow, very clear image of him appears. He gets in the water with me and stands right in front of me. It’s almost invasive how close He gets…but it makes me realize He’s there for me, how close He is to me.

He holds his hands out toward me with a red rose in it. The red rose turns into the red sacred heart. 


I think I hear “Jesus is life/ I am life” and “choose life” over and over and over again. Jesus takes me by the hand and I say how easy it is when he holds my hand. I grab? His other hand and ask him to never let go. We embrace in a long, strong, very safe hug.

I don’t know if I ask him if my dad loves me or not. My dad is there off to the side waiting. I explain that I love my dad and I think I’ve forgiven him. Jesus answers by saying, “I love you” with the implication of isn’t that enough? Or isn’t that all you need? Inside I know it is. I don’t answer out loud. I cry a lot (in real life) while this is happening.

I think I still want to know about my dad- what to do. When I asked Jesus to never let go of my hands he didn’t…until this point. He turns me around to face my dad and puts his hands on my shoulders. His hands feel huge and they grip strong so I know he won’t let go of me. He’s got me, is supporting me- he’s got my back, so to speak. I feel a gentle nudge forward, towards my dad- Jesus asks if I’m ready to move forward. I hesitate. I don’t know. I feel I’m not ready and I don’t know if I should accept him or what. ? 
The therapist says she sees the Holy Spirit all over this. She said something similar the last time too. I wonder if she just says that to everyone. 

I didn’t want to go today. I was crying before I even went. I’m so angry and so overwhelmingly sad. I’m surrounded by love at the moment, but all I want to do is get away- run away. I just want to disappear. On multiple levels.

EMDR session #1

Published June 10, 2017 by Chloe Madison

You’re supposed to focus on a picture of the most distressing part of the issue you’re dealing with. Then, you decide what’s the biggest negative feeling you have about it. I wept throughout this entire session- not sure why.

I have a picture in my head of my uncle’s suicide- his body laying face down in the grass, the stark contrast of the red blood on the green grass. 

The feeling I have is that I should have been more understanding of him, I should have known (what I didn’t know yet) about his abuse by my dad. I should have been more compassionate. 

I feel pain in my heart and chest- it blows up, swells, and feels like it’s going to burst. The pain moves up through my neck and into my head. I feel like my head is going to explode as the pain swells greater and greater. I feel like the explosion will come out of my eyes and my head will shatter. 

So I turn away from the sight because I can’t deal. I keep trying to move away and I feel like I start to float away from the scene. As much as I turn my head in that direction, wanting to move away from the scene of the suicide, I feel obligated to return. It’s the right thing to do. It’s like I just can’t turn my back on my uncle- it’s not his fault. 

I feel like I need to talk with my aunt to tell her the truth. (In reality, my uncle had been sexually abused my my dad when they were younger- my uncle told several people, but no one ever believed him. He spent most of his life depressed and eventually committed suicide). So I feel like I need to tell my aunt that my uncle was telling the truth. But I don’t want to because I’m afraid it will crush her. I see us talking in fast forward with no words.

We move into her house and we begin to become submerged in blue water that’s all throughout the house. The water stands for truth. We soak in the water up to our mouths- our entire bodies are submerged and part of our heads- up to the level of our mouths. We don’t talk anymore, we just soak in the truth. I can tell it’s going to take her time to take it all in (just like it took me time to digest everything). 

As we’re soaking in the blue water, I notice the sky turns a deep red. It becomes a dark maroon, like something foreboding is coming. But there’s a lighter, circular spot that develops in the sky. In the deep red sky, this lighter spot turns into an orange color, then fades into yellow. I feel like Jesus is going to come through that spot on a chariot or something. 

But I don’t let him. Even though I don’t have the power to stop God, I push back and don’t let him come out of the sky. The sky begins to turn a deep purple. I feel like it’s a signal that Jesus is permanently leaving. (The therapist says at this point that it’s our choice to follow Jesus and allow Him to work.) 

So I realize the mistake I’m making and I say, “Sorry! Come back, come back!” I don’t quite remember, but I think the sky turns from purple to orange. I rise up out of the blue pool to get a better look to see if Jesus is coming back. I keep rising up and as I do, I’m spinning and floating upwards, looking all around. I don’t see Jesus, but I get the feeling that he’s all around me. I look up, directly overhead and I see a circular area that’s made up of a whiter light (this reminds me of the very end of Twister when they look up into the middle of the tornado). I’m floating up into this white light. 

I feel like it could be God carrying me up into Heaven, perhaps for a visit. I want to visit my uncle and think that maybe I’ll see everyone there. I see the shadows of all my family members who have passed on. But then I see all the shadows of everyone fade and back away. One person floats forward (he’s a dark shadow with a bigger belly) so I think it’s my dad. I never see him clearly so I’m not sure. I wanted to check on my uncle so I keep thinking my dad will fade and my uncle will come forward. But it doesn’t happen. 

My dad keeps coming forward. He puts his arm around me, his hand on my shoulder and I think he says he needs to tell me something. He says, “I’m so very sorry.” Well, this is all I’ve ever wanted to hear! So I wonder if it’s real or imagined. I think I asked him if he apologized to my uncle…I wanted to make sure they’ve resolved things. He says, “I never meant to hurt you.” I think he said I love you. I don’t seem to receive these messages too warmly as I find myself still preoccupied with wanting to know if he’s resolved things with my uncle and if my uncle is ok. He asks me for forgiveness. I kind of hold off answering, almost like- well, if you apologized to Uncle Gary, then yes- if you didn’t, then no. I’m preoccupied with the injustice my uncle dealt with his entire life. Then my dad says, “Justice is not yours, it’s the Lord’s.” It makes me think of academy and wanting to help others get justice because my uncle never got it and I never did either. 

I tell my dad, “Of course I forgive you. I always have.” We go to hug, but I pause in the embrace. I question if it’s safe. I hold off hugging because I keep questioning the safety/ protection of the situation because it wasn’t safe before. I then see another person’s face- a giant sized face just floating there. This is a safe person, but I try to push that face away because it has nothing to do with the situation. The same giant face comes back again- this time the face itself is faded, but I recognize other facial features. I push it away again, thinking it doesn’t belong (except for the fact that it is a safe person). I can’t quite remember what happens next. 

I don’t know. I think we never fully hug. I think I inquire about my uncle again. My dad answers with something like- he did or said what he had to/ needed to me. (I notice we’re running out of time in the session.) I keep thinking my indecision to embrace or my indecision about whether hugging my dad is safe or questioning about my uncle is making Heaven impatient with me. The white light we’ve been in turns dark purple and I feel like I’m running out of time. They’re going to send me away. 

I descend back to Earth, back toward the pool of blue water. I look up and see my dad’s hand is reaching down to me. I reach up to him, but we’re too far away. God doesn’t let us touch or let us have more time. I keep descending and his hand fades away. 

I can see my aunt again in the water with me. I ask her if she understands now. There’s no response. I’m distracted by the sky turning orange. I see a light circular spot developing again in the sky. I think it’s Jesus coming back. I can’t remember, but I think I decide that  I don’t want to push him away again. 

I think it ends there. I’m not sure. I don’t remember. 

‘Battle axe with locks of curls’

Published November 29, 2012 by Chloe Madison
Claudia

Kirsten Dunst in ‘Interview With A Vampire’

Being raped by Joe and even more, the abortion served as the catalyst for the great depression.  I was alone with only one friend who knew what had just happened and who stood by my side.  The guy I was in love with had abandoned me, disgusted with me.  My friend was dealing with her own issue…her boyfriend (my roommate) had just decided to move back to Sweden and left.  She was devastated and had no one else to confide in.  We became best friends…although not the healthiest of friends.

I was disgusted by her, actually.  She had crushed on Joe.  Even after what happened, she asked me one day if I wouldn’t mind if she hooked up with him.  I was stunned!  “Are you freaking serious?  What the hell is your problem??” I responded.  I couldn’t believe that just because he was good looking, she was willing to overlook him raping her friend.  So, even though she was my only close friend at this time…I knew I was truly alone.  She really didn’t have my back after all.

My downward spiral was quite ugly.  Everything from my childhood came back.  I had never officially dealt with being consistently raped as a 9 year old.  I had never dealt with what my dad did.  I had never really dealt with my dad’s death and the fact that I still felt guilty for ‘causing’ it by wishing it.  My support system within the church was gone, my relationship with God, my Father, had waned.  Most of the men I had a relationship with had screwed me over somehow.  I spiraled completely out of control.  I dove into the rock music…I found the lyrics related to me now, the angst in singers’ voices resonated with me.  Instead of focusing on the Bible, I focused on the lyrics to rock songs.  They understood me.  They felt my pain.  There was a magical, yet nonexistent relationship and understanding between rock songs and I.  I kept playing my guitar on the streets, now with more gusto and more emotion.  I wrote songs, I wrote various little odes.  I will publish some for you…they are terribly sad.

I lost interest in one of my most favorite things: eating!  I became anorexic.  I was depressed for years, anorexic for years and suicidal.  I made several half hearted attempts.  They weren’t ‘attention seeking’ as people might like to label it.  No one knew about it.  I did it in secret and in private.  I remember the last time quite well.  I cut…with a piece of glass that I called myself.  I was in fact, broken.  I was nothing but broken pieces, broken glass…piercing, slicing, hurting everything it touched.  And in fact, I did feel as if I messed up everything I ever laid eyes on.  My life was sh*t.  I was sh*t.  I had done the worst of the worst in terms of sinning.  God clearly didn’t love me and was pissed at me.  I felt like He wasn’t interested in helping me because I had sinned so badly.

I just…wasn’t worthy.  Of anything.

I was super skinny, never ate and worked out like a madman.  I think I was punishing myself by not eating.  After all, it was one of my greatest joys in life.  I could barely function.  It was all I could do to muster the strength to drag myself out of bed and into work in the mornings.  I dropped out of college and didn’t finish my Master’s degree.  I could barely survive.

My depression was deeper and wider than any ocean on earth.  I was literally depressed for nearly an entire decade.  A DECADE!!!  This was no joke, no ploy for attention… the worst things had happened to me and I had done the worst things…and I just couldn’t bear it anymore.  At the age of 9, my life went down the toilet.  I just wasn’t meant to be.

I clung to music, if nothing else.  I found lyrics that echoed my soul’s cries.

Mudvayne’s “Skrying”:

“Battle axe with locks of curls,
Introverted…

Do you remember the bedroom,
Was it your cell or was it your tomb…

Children, learning the secret knock, a nickel
To enter that place,
The place you would go to make things okay,
My cost, the price of a broken doll, can you
Remember that place,
The place you would go to take pain away?”

The line “battle axe with locks of curls” makes me picture a little girl with blond curls ramming her head against a wall, like she’s been so destroyed by abuse that she’s now self-destructive.  The line about the bedroom being your cell or your tomb resonated incredibly with me.  I asked myself that every day.  Was the abuse that occurred in the bedroom a temporary cell?  Or was it going to kill me, eventually becoming my tomb?

I loved the release that listening to Korn gave me.  I related to the lyrics, the pain and agony and felt better…even relieved after listening and screaming along with the singer, Jonathan Davis.  Turns out he had been raped as a child too.  No wonder I connected…

korn_jonathan_davis_singing_rallysong_jdrf

Korn’s “Daddy”

“You’ve raped!
I feel dirty
It hurt!
As a child
Tied down!
That’s a good boy
And f**ked!
Your own child
I scream!
No one hears me
It hurt!
I’m not a liar
My God!
Saw you watching”

To this day, that song brings me to tears.  At times, I tried to share it with people.  I didn’t want them to think Korn was this evil rock band, like people want to label all rock bands.  If your children relate to these lyrics, you should be scared.  And you should inquire with them what it is they relate to.  They might just need your help.

Blueberry Muffin

Published November 29, 2012 by Chloe Madison

little_girl_crying

I had to leave the church, but I didn’t want to leave God. So I went on another missions trip, this time to the Philippines.  It was one of the BEST summers of my life!!  I was definitely on a spiritual high.  I loved everyone I was on the team with, I loved the Philippines, I loved God, I loved serving people and I loved being back in His will.  God had forgiven me for what I had done and it felt amazing to be safely back in the palm of His hand.

After I came home from the Philippines, I realized it was high time for me to move out of my mom’s house and into my own place.  I had separated myself from my beloved church and subsequently, from the invisible support system that I had there in the body of fellow believers.  I didn’t quite realize that yet though.  I felt confident of life in general, as I was newly home from spending several months abroad doing missions.  I was on a ‘spiritual high’.  I moved into a well-known touristy kind of location in Miami named Coconut Grove.  Not only was it trendy, beautiful and set on the ocean, but it had quite the active night life.

There was this odd, young culture of people who lived in the Grove…they were called Grove Rats.  I found them to be an eclectic and overly welcoming group who shared an interest of mine- music and playing guitar.  These ‘kids’ hung out on the streets until the wee hours of the morning, sat in a circle, smoked cigarettes incessantly, played music and sang popular rock songs.  I found their company so enjoyable!  Not only was I learning to become a better guitar player, but I was enjoying a loud group that I could sing to my heart’s content in.  You see, I’m a TERRIBLE singer.  Like, REALLY terrible.  I’ve always joked that it’s illegal in 7 states for me to sing out loud.  And yet, I adore singing!  So, I found that I could hide in this crowd singing as loud as I could because I’d be masked by the 8-12 other singers.  Plus, these were the most nonjudgmental people I had ever encountered in my life.  They really wouldn’t care if I couldn’t keep the tune.  As I got to know the Grove Rats more personally, I found some of them to be runaways literally living on the streets and some were simply bumming around.  I encountered one guy who was a runaway who I thought was kind of a genius.  He ‘lived’ on one of the close uninhabited islands.  He’d swim to and from there on a daily basis and when he was in the Grove, he’d hide his stuff by climbing a tree and concealing his backpack up in the tree.  He stayed around for a few months and then moved on.  There were a group of these kids who got together and pooled their tiny incomes from minimum wage jobs.  They got a studio apartment together.  I was asked over once and was shocked to see not a stick of furniture, but instead a bunch of sleeping bags overlapping each other on the floor.

Anyway, I found a roommate in another passer-by…this one a chef from Sweden.  He and I rented a 2 bedroom apartment in the Grove and split the rent.  At this time, I was still in college working on my Master’s degree.  I was a substitute teacher by day and a waitress at a diner in the Grove by night and on the weekends. I also had a ‘third part-time job’ and that was playing guitar on the streets.  Whether these Grove Rats were around or not, I saw that if you played guitar and kept your guitar case opened, people walking by would occasionally drop dollar bills in.  I was living on my own and was too proud to ask my mom for financial help.  From my 2 jobs, I could pay all my bills…my rent, car, gas, insurance…but I consistently had nothing left over when it came time to eat!  So, I’d sit on the street, strum a few tunes and when I had received about $10, I’d stop and go use that money to eat with.

I fell in love with another guy who hung out with the Grove Rats.  He wasn’t one of them.  But, wow…could he play guitar and sing!! It was almost like a serenade whenever he came out for the evening and joined the group to play.  Actually, when he was there, he was automatically the leader…everyone saw his talent and respected it.  We became very close friends and during that time, I fell in love with him.  Unfortunately, it was unrequited love.  😦

About a year after I moved into the Grove and began hanging out with the Grove Rats, a very attractive Lieutenant from the Coast Guard moved into my apartment complex.  From day one, he made it very clear that he was attracted to me.  But, as I was enveloped in my feelings for my guitar playing singer, I really found that I had no feelings at all for my new neighbor.  His name was Joe.  Joe’s hitting on me was relentless, yet fruitless for him.  When he was sober, you’d never know that it bothered him as he constantly played it cool.  But, when he drank, he became a mean spirited and critically outspoken person.  I learned quickly to stay away from him when he drank.

The guy I was in love with left for the summer.  He left the country to go visit family.  Another neighbor in my apartment complex was moving away, so we had a going away party for him.  As we lived within walking distance of bars, it seemed harmless.  We’d go have some drinks with no worry of having to drive home.  At this point, Joe hadn’t talked to me in months because he was mad that I wouldn’t respond to his advances.  I didn’t really care and thought that even though Joe was going to the bar, I would just hang out with my friends and could pretty much avoid him.  We had several drinks and were enjoying ourselves greatly.  I started to feel tired and told my roommate’s girlfriend that I was going to walk home.  I declined her offer to walk me home as it was only a few blocks away.  I said my good-byes and left.

Before I even reached the road outside the bar, Joe was by my side…….

………….

………….he completely ignored me for days.  He lied to mutual friends, telling them he walked me home that night and that was it.  He said he had left me alone in my apartment.

Over the next few days, he refused to even acknowledge that he knew me around the apartment complex.  And shortly thereafter, my worst fears were confirmed.  I was pregnant. 

I confronted Joe.  He began yelling at me that I was psycho and crazy and he never did anything and nothing ever happened that night.  He lied, saying he had no idea what I was talking about and he walked away.

Here, I was…pregnant.  The last thing in the world I wanted to do was to piss God off again and kill an innocent life by getting another abortion.  I just couldn’t do it.  But this was Joe’s baby.  And Joe was Asian.  The baby would certainly come out looking at least a bit Asian.  I could carry the baby for the duration of the pregnancy and give it up for adoption.  But, I knew myself.  I’m such a sap that if I carried a baby for nine months, there’s no way I could give it up.  I’d keep it.  And if I kept the baby, would I lie or tell the truth?  Do I eventually tell my child that your father raped your mother?  How would that devastate an individual, knowing that they are a product of rape?  Or do I lie to my child and come up with another story?  Either way, I would have to look my rapist in the face on a daily basis.  If I have an Asian looking baby, how could I not see my rapist’s face every time I glance at my child?  What’s worse…is that even though he was denying everything at the time, I had this horrible fear that he’d want visitation rights.  What the ?!?!  I’m not sure where that came from, but that was something I was really worried about.  I thought I’d have to coordinate with my rapist for the rest of my life over him visiting our child.

It seemed like no matter which way I went, it was a lose-lose situation.  So, I took the coward’s way out and decided on an abortion.  I again confronted Joe, demanding that he help me pay for it (as I didn’t have the funds to pay for it myself).  He accused me of lying about being pregnant and demanded proof.  Big. mistake.  I took yet another pregnancy test.  This time, I opened the box and laid it flat.  I opened the pamphlet of directions inside and laid it flat.  I took those two items, the test itself and a staple gun and waited until I saw Joe leave his apartment.  Then I darted up to his apartment door, opened up the box the pregnancy test came in and staple gunned it to his front door.  I remember my hands were shaking as I stapled the opened instructional pamphlet.  I was glancing over my shoulders left and right as I was terrified he would be back any second. Finally, I stapled gunned the pregnancy test to his door, which declared I was pregnant.  I ran downstairs and darted into hiding in my apartment as quickly as I could.  I was shaking from head to toe.  But, I was so pissed off at him for what he did…and on top of that, for him accusing me of lying.  In the midst of a tragedy, for a fleeting moment, I felt proud for momentarily standing up for myself.

I had the abortion soon after.  I didn’t have the money to pay for full anesthesia.  So, I got what they referred to as ‘twilight’ anesthesia.  They described it as lightly sleeping.  I have a memory of waking up in the middle of the procedure, feeling my insides getting sucked out.  I jumped up and screamed and startled the attendants.  They jumped on me and held me down and I don’t remember anything after that, except waking up after the procedure was over.

I felt terrible.  I couldn’t believe I had just taken another life.  I couldn’t believe I had just been raped AGAIN.

The guy I was in love with came home from being out of the country only days after the procedure.  He was the second person I told what happened.  His reaction wasn’t at all what I expected.  He literally seemed disgusted with me.  Shortly afterwards, he told me he wasn’t really interested in being friends with me.  I was devastated.

The guilt from what I did was consuming me and killing me from the inside out.  When Joe delivered a personal check to me for half the cost of the procedure, I looked at it as genuine proof – this was his admission of guilt.  I only saw him once after that.  We passed in the parking lot…I was walking into my apartment after driving home and he was walking across the lot to the garbage dumpster, carrying a vacuum cleaner that he was throwing away.  It was the only time he ever spoke to me afterwards.  He made a crude joke that he should have used that vacuum cleaner…it would have been cheaper for him.

My anger boiled and brimmed consistently.  Once, in a lame attempt at lashing out, I threw a blueberry muffin at his sliding glass door on his balcony.  Sure enough, the next morning, that very same blueberry muffin had been smeared all over my car.

About a year later, I found myself trying to get over things still.  I thought I needed closure and needed to stand up for myself and confront him by saying the words “I know you raped me” to his face.  Because he was a lieutenant in the Coast Guard at the office in downtown Miami, getting a hold of his work number wasn’t difficult.  I called his work and asked for him.  I asked to briefly meet up with him.  He said he would…and I think he did so, just because at the time, he was alarmed that I contacted him at work.  He told me to meet him at his favorite restaurant in the Grove.

I did.  He didn’t.

It’s the only time I’ve ever been stood up.  As I was sitting there waiting for him, I was trying to maintain my nerve to say what I wanted to say.  The more that time passed, the more I began to realize he wasn’t coming, and the more anger set in.  Since I knew this was his favorite restaurant…a favorite place of his to take girls, I decided to write a warning to his female companions.  I went into the women’s restroom and carved into all 3 stalls on the back of the doors “Joe K— is a rapist”.  I went back several days later to make sure my work of art was still there and to make it stand out a bit more.  I took a black permanent marker with me and colored inside the carvings.  They’d have to sand that off to conceal it.

That was my last jab at him.  I’ve periodically kept tabs on his location.  He moved back to Minnesota and went to Law School.  I wondered what that was all about and thought that perhaps he was paranoid about his law breaking and needed to know how to best defend himself.  According to Linked In, he’s supposedly in Afghanistan now.  Good.  The farther away, the better.